


i would come in a shirt of hair

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 19:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16582982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: His shoulders feel heavy. His chest feels heavier. But his mind is sharp and clear, focused on two things, one: the pain, the pain, the pain and two: the only house in Hell's Kitchen he can feel safe in. It's three blocks away. He has a broken wrist, a knife cut on his hand, a swollen lip.He pulls himself up.





	i would come in a shirt of hair

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime between season 1 and 2, I guess. Season 3 made me into a sadist and this happened.  
> There may be some mistakes, as English is not my first language and I haven't been writing for a long, long time. I apologize in advance. 
> 
> Title's from T. S. Eliot's poem, [The Love Song of Saint Sebastian](https://genius.com/Ts-eliot-the-love-song-of-saint-sebastian-annotated).

He pulls himself up, slowly, from where he's been laying. 

His body sings – not the melody of angels but the laments of damned, low and rough, spat through gritted teeth. Every night he's born again, every night he sheds his skin and grows a new one underneath. Two blocks away police sirens go off, a man with a bloody face and bloody knuckles gets handcuffed and shoved into the back of the car – he can tick him off the list. ( "But your list will _never_ end, Matt." ) His shoulders feel heavy. His chest feels heavier. But his mind is sharp and clear, focused on two things, one: the pain, the pain, the pain and two: the only house in Hell's Kitchen he can feel safe in. It's three blocks away. He has a broken wrist, a knife cut on his hand, a swollen lip.

He pulls himself up. 

Satisfaction doesn't come as often as it did before. He doesn't feel proud of helping his people anymore, it's – his duty, his cross to carry. Everyone has one, his is just heavier. ( "Stop making everything about you," _he_ said, his voice trembling with anger "'cause it's not. It's not." ) He keeps walking, though. He keeps walking and walking until he recognizes the faint buzz of the broken neon the pub in the corner has had for almost fifteen years now, until he's in front of a flight of stairs, dividing him from his safe haven. He feels like his head is going to split open, collapse like an old building. He takes the first step. 

And he remembers – how funny memories are, emerging from the dark like ancient wrecks at the most inappropriate moments – he remembers saying the rosary in the church just a few hours ago, when the sun was up and he hadn't a mask on – or he had a _different_ mask on. Each _Hail Mary_ , a step closer to God's grace. Each step, a little closer to, 

to, 

"Foggy?"

"Shit, Matt." He feels hands reaching under his shoulders and he suddenly feels so, so much heavier and tired. 

"I'm bleeding, my hand–"

" Yeah, I got you. Don't move."

Foggy, smelling of beer and sweat, lays him on the couch, as gently as he can manage, shuffles around nervously looking for bandages and alcohol. He doesn't take long because they're right under the sink, so he can find them as soon as possible when Matt's in need. Unconsciously, he kneels beside Matt and cradles his bloody hand, before scrubbing it with alcohol.

Through his swollen lip, Matt breathes: " Were you– were you sleeping on the couch? "

"Rough night." Foggy mumbles, and moves Matt's wrist– 

" _Ah!_ Oh, God. Don't touch it. Don't touch it."

"Sorry, buddy." He absent-mindedly brings his lips to Matt's broken wrist, like devotees do, just barely kissing the marble of saint's statues, and quickly bandages it. Matt feels his soft breath and heartbeat and thinks, _I did it, the arrows didn't kill me. Not this time._ He moves his head so he's touching Foggy's temple with his lips, says, " _Foggy–_ " in his strangled, tiny voice and Foggy freezes. 

He gets up, and Matt knows he's holding a hand out. Foggy picks up his own cross and whispers to him, "let's clean you up." 

Once the water starts running, Matt reaches for the sink to get leverage and get on his feet, but he's swiftly stopped by Foggy's hand on his chest. 

"Easy, easy." Foggy takes Matt out of Daredevil – the suit and the hero fall both on the floor, crumpled and sticky with blood. Matt Murdock enters the shower, puts his hands on the wall and stays there. He hears a sigh, then Foggy undresses as well and comes up behind him. 

Foggy puts his hands on the monument of Matt's tribulation on his back, showers the red off of him. Matt trembles.

"Let me see your face."

He turns and blinks once, twice. Foggy winces. "You'll need some ice on that lip."

"S'fine."

"It's not." Foggy reaches with a finger to touch Matt's chin and then kisses him on his forehead. "It's not fine."

Matt's lips tighten in a thin line before he's kissing Foggy, grabbing him by the hips, feeling that he's _alive_ and _real_. His hand grazes Foggy stomach and squeezes his half-hard cock, he says– " _please_ " and " _I need it_ " and Foggy spins him around, makes him lean on the wall. He whispers, hands firm on Matt's hips, "when are we gonna talk about it?"

 _It_ is the thing that eats Matt at night if he doesn't get up and put on the suit. _It_ is the thing that leaves Matt beaten up and out of breath in Foggy's hands. 

"Not now, not now– "

"When?" Matt's hand are closed into fists and he backs up into Foggy, but Foggy stops him.

"When?"

Matt sighs. "Tomorrow."

Foggy enters him. His body sings.  
His muscles are sore and taut but he's not stopping – Foggy's not stopping, even if Matt can hear him making little strangled noises and sniffling behind him. He's not stopping even when Foggy slips ("Fuck, _fuck!_ –" ) and almost drags him to the floor. He doesn't stop. He reaches down behind him, ragged breath and half-lidded eyes, takes a hold of Foggy's dick and impales himself, slowly and thoroughly. Foggy sits back and watches as Matt moves on his cock, his head bowed as he takes it, takes it, takes it, until he can't move anymore and sits on Foggy's thighs.  
Only then,

Foggy reaches around Matt with his arms, puts his lips on his neck, and Matt comes with a low moan. 

He's facing Foggy, now, and bows his head again to him. He rests his forehead on his thighs and feel the water and Foggy's fingers slip through his hair. 

"I'm sorry." He's not sure for what, but he feels like saying it anyway. 

"No, you're not." Foggy says, defeated. His voice breaks Matt's heart. 

"It's almost morning. Let's go to bed."


End file.
